


Superwholock Holmes: The Case of the Time-Traveling Hunters

by freedomworm, saberchild



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Humor, M/M, Slash, Superwholock, attempts at humor, crossovers, yes lots of those
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-04 15:49:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freedomworm/pseuds/freedomworm, https://archiveofourown.org/users/saberchild/pseuds/saberchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a job takes a surprising turn, detectives are abducted by aliens, and having three doctors is a thing. </p><p>Also, it's Tuesday.</p><p> </p><p>[Officially discontinued 8/10/17]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Supernatural

**Author's Note:**

> Normal disclaimers... I don't own Supernatural, the Sherlock Holmes movie franchise, Sherlock (BBC), or Doctor Who... insert something about intellectual property. I should really look up one of those formal disclaimers...

Chapter One: _Supernatural_

            When Sam wakes up, it’s Tuesday.

Dean has just thrown a pillow at him. “Up and at it, Sammy,” He says cheerfully. It seems to be one of those rare days where Dean’s managed to drag himself out of bed before noon without anyone’s help.

            Sam groans and rolls over to check the bedside digital clock.

Six-thirty. What the hell?

            Dean is obviously unsatisfied with the rate Sam is moving at because he throws a second pillow at Sam’s head. “C’mon, we’ve got a case.”

            “What is it?” Sam asks groggily, kicking back his sheets and sitting up.

“Perdition, Kansas, two hours away. Four men vanished into thin air in the past five weeks. No bodies; just gone.”

            “Dean,” Sam complains, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “That’s nothing.”

“We’ve gone on less.” Dean says, and Sam believes that he’s actually being quoted there.

            “Fine.” He agrees, standing up. “If it _is_ something; what’s your guess?”

“Maybe a witch.” Dean shrugs. Not appreciating the still dubious expression on his brother’s face, he adds, “Just because the apocalypse is on _menopause_ , doesn’t mean we go on vacation, alright? We still have work to do.”

            “Yeah, but at six-thirty in the morning?” Sam sighs, heading across the room to the bathroom.

“There might be a psycho-bitch on the loose, Sammy –no time for sleeping in!” Dean calls as Sam shuts the door.

            It’s hard to tell if he’s being serious or not.

…

 

When Sam exits the bathroom (wide awake after a nice, long shower), he finds Dean and Cas sitting at the small round table of the motel room. They’re having one of those staring contests that Dean is convinced he will win some day.

            Sam’s pretty sure this game is just some sort of excuse for Dean to stare into the angel’s eyes… some more, obviously; they already spend half of the time having eye-sex anyway.

            “Hey Cas,” Sam says.

“Hello Sam.” Cas replies in the same mild but gruff tone he usually has. He doesn’t look away from Dean, whom he is beginning to regard with slight concern.

            Dean stares, watery-eyed, back at Castiel.

            Sam just rolls his eyes and begins to pack up their things –mainly his laptop and research books.

            Like Dean said: the apocalypse is currently on menopause. No one’s heard anything on Lucifer ( _the_ Lucifer) or his minions since that day Same woke up and suddenly found himself back on Earth –no longer in Hell –and perfectly healthy.

            No one’s sure if Lucifer is still in the Cage or not, but it is the common belief that he is not. Where ever he is, the Devil is laying low. Of course, this probably means he’s cooking up some terrible plan that involves either world-domination or world-destruction, but Sam’s kind of relieved. It’s almost as if it never really happened –like the end of the world was never a real threat. _Almost._ There _are_ … _things_ that keep Sam reminded about what happened.

            Dean’s certainly living up to one of his many (sometimes useless, sometimes strange) mottos in life: _move on, don’t think about it; didn’t happen._

            On the other hand, Castiel’s faith is fully renewed. He’s 100% sure that it was God’s hand that brought Sam back and really, what other explanation is there? The question, though, is _why_.

            Well, that’s the question for Sam, anyway. Cas’s question is more along the lines of _where_.

            For the past six months since Sam’s return, Cas has been scouring both Heaven and Earth for signs of his Father.

            That being said, Sam’s kind of surprised to see Castiel. This isn’t exactly a huge case they’re taking on today, and Cas isn’t one to just visit just _because_ (Not that Sam’s complaining about this unexpected drop-in. the lack of Cas makes Dean all butt-hurt and whiny. It’s really annoying).

            Finally, Dean blinks, effectively ending the staring contest. He scowls, mutters “one day…” and turns to Sam, who is all packed and ready to go.

            “Ready? Good.” Dean says, fishing the keys to his beloved Impala out of his pocket and heading toward the door. “Let’s go.”

            They stop by a diner for some pancakes before hitting the road and heading to Perdition. (“Hey,” Dean laughs, “We’re on the Road to Perdition.”

“Not funny.” Sam says flatly.

            Cas doesn’t understand that reference.)

As they near Perdition, Dean fills Sam in on more details of the case. “The last man disappeared yesterday evening. Name of Dennis Lively. All of the men were last seen in the same area.”

            “And where’s that?”

“Mimi’s Bouquet Shop and Garden.” Dean replies with a small snort of amusement.

            Mimi’s is a small shop tucked away in a corner of Perdition. This time of year, the large garden behind the shop is pretty dead.

            The owner’s name is Amelia Croth. She’s a sweet old lady who has owned the place for thirty years. All she’s able to tell them is that the last she saw of the men was when they went out back. They had all been to the shop to buy flowers for loved ones.

            “There’s a small stream farther down through the garden and the woods,” Croth offers. It is the only explanation she could think of. “The might’ve wanted to see it.”

“Thank you ma’am.”

            Sam and Dean exit the shop and meet up with Castiel, who is standing still outside. There’s a concentrated expression on his face that he usually wears when he’s using his Angel mojo to sense something.

            “Hey Cas, what’s up?” Dean asks.

Castiel sighs and blinks, seeming returning to the present. “There’s a great deal of magic covering the area.” He says, “It’s strange. I can’t pinpoint exactly what…” he trails off and his eyes glaze over once more.

            Dean leans over, waves a hand in front of Castiel’s face and then turns to Sam. “Okay then. Weird magic. What did I say, Sammy? We’ve got a case.”

            “Whatever, Dean. Let’s just check out the garden. And don’t call me that.” Sam adds on afterthought.

            Castiel follows, scanning the surroundings thoroughly with sharp blue eyes.

The ‘garden’ is a bunch of empty flower pots on wooden tables and on painted tiled ground, shrubs, and chipped stone statues.

            “So how’s the search for God?” Sam makes small talk as they wander about the area, unsure about what they’re looking for, but looking nevertheless.

            “I have not succeeded.” Castiel replies, “But that is obvious.” He opens his mouth to add more when Dean chuckles a little bit away.

            “Look,” He says, “Angels.” He points to a pair of generically positioned statues on the edge of the garden. They’re both supposed to be females, Sam figures, and they’re kind of ugly, actually.

            “These are not angels.” Cas says, staring at them critically. “They are barely twenty years old. And they are made of stone.” He gives the ‘angels’ an offended look.

            “Do we even _know_ what the thing is?” Sam sighs, and he’s not talking about the angels, who have already been well-identified as rocks.

            Dean shrugs.  “We can search the woods.” He says.

“Not a good idea,” Comes a sing-song voice from behind them.

            No one but Sam notices anything, and he know _exactly_ who the voice belongs to without turning around. He was kind of hoping Lucifer wouldn’t show up today. It was going so well.

            “This isn’t a case you should be taking…” Lucifer says. He’s leaning casually against a statue of a young woman jumping rope as he observes his fingernails. He glances over to Sam. “Trust me –not your type of thing.”

            Sam clenches his teeth together and turns away without answering. “Dean?” He calls out.

It looks like while Lucifer was distracting him, Dean and Cas headed down to the stream.

            “Ah ah _ah_ …” Lucifer says, as if chiding a child for doing wrong. “Sam.” He warns.

Sam turns around just as a hand clamps onto his shoulder. It’s too heavy to be Lucifer’s, even if he wasn’t just a hallucination.

            Sam’s barely able to register that he’s staring at an angry looking angel –a _statue_ of an angel –before everything goes black.


	2. Doctor Who and Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are aliens and blue space ships.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thanks for all the positive feedback! Just so you know, Laurence and I will be updating every TUESDAY (and possibly more frequent than that, too). Lots of kudos to Laurence for this chapter; she's the Doctor Who and Sherlock expert here (I only know so much about DW because of her, also I've only seen Sherlock's first series.). :)   
> Hope you enjoy this!

Chapter Two, Part One: _Doctor Who_

Amy lets out a small scream as she dives into the TARDIS, grabbing Rory’s shoulder to keep from tumbling to the floor. He turns and catches her hands, helping her regain her balance before turning to the Doctor. “That was supposed to be the planet of the... little cakes or something!” he snaps.

“Sphere of the Pastries,” he replies, dancing about the controls and examining his sensors, almost calm, definitely not scared, but slightly giddy at this new discovery.

Amy laughs as she leans back on the rail that runs around the deck. “I think it touched me with one of its tentacle-” she waves her arms about as an illustration, “things!”

“Doctor, I was expecting some sort of outer-space café!” Rory complains. _Because that was going to happen. A nice quiet trip with sweets._

“Rory, expecting things is dangerous and very, very boring. Amy,” he drops his voice and turns to her, “stay away from milk.” he looks back turns to the screen above the controls towards him, his cheerful attitude returning as he examines it, “for only about a week, then we’ll go out for ice cream.”

“Or get eaten by a giant alien rodent,” Rory mutters. Things like that are constantly going wrong with the doctor. Amy doesn’t mind, she seems to enjoy it even, but Rory has slightly less interest in dying.

“Oh stop being such a drama queen,” Amy laughs, tapping him on the nose, right before the TARDIS shakes violently, nearly throwing its occupants to the floor. “Doctor.” Amy whispers, turning to her friend with wide green eyes.

“Don’t worry, we’re safe in here. Completely tentacle-proof~” the room rocks about again “unless she decides we would make a good snack,” he continues quickly, grabbing the edge of the console. He flings down a lever and everything goes still. The trio lets out held breath.

“So what happened to the ‘Orb of the Pastries’?” Amy asks, leaning on the console and raising an eyebrow.

Rory tries not to dwell on the fact that the Doctor knew it was a girl.

“I missed. Right planet, several hundred years late.” He flicks a few switches, “It’s too bad, I really liked that planet.”

“So where to next? Planet of the Giant Man Eating Daisies?” Amy jokes, elbowing Rory.

He smiles and throws up his hands “The all-consuming tentacled blob was enough for me, thanks,” and the vampires, Loch Ness Monster and the planet that automatically launches you to another one, but he couldn’t just stand there listing all the times they had nearly died. Anyway, they hadn’t died yet, and, though he wouldn’t mind a quiet life, these adventures are amazing. Amy had never seemed as happy before, and she wasn’t exactly a gloomy person to begin with.

“Actually,” the Doctor starts, continuing to work levers and dials, “I think we’ll visit a friend of mine.”

“Wonder how Rory will like seeing you and River,” Amy says, raising her eyebrows mischievously.

“I’ve told you, I hardly know her,” the doctor replies. He doesn’t want to think about the mystery of River Song right now. To him, she was still a reminder of a different life, and he didn’t want to bring all that back. Even after it had ended, he is still running away.

“Who is it?” Rory asks, ignoring another in-joke.

“Brilliant man. He’s mildly famous in your time, just a bit, at least in London.” _Famously dead. This should be a fun surprise._ He turns to his friends. “We’re going to see Sherlock Holmes.”

 

___

 

Chapter Two, Part Two: _Sherlock_

“Sherlock –stop that.”

            John Watson is five foot seven, brunette-ish blonde, brown-eyed, and slightly irritated.

As per usual.

            “Stop what?” Sherlock says sharply, blinking and thus breaking out of his thoughts.

“Tapping.”

            Sherlock looks to his hand, which holds the bow to his violin. He’s been tapping the end of the bow on the wall absentmindedly. He puts the bow down on the ground and goes to plucking a high E on his violin, which is tucked under his arm, as he begins to space out once more.

            “ _Sherlock_.” John snaps. His nerves are at ends. He hasn’t relaxed once –not _once_ –since Sherlock’s return from ‘death’ nearly a month ago. Things have been strained at best between them; there are things that should be said that have been left woefully untouched in terms of conversation.

            John doesn’t even know _how_ –not really. He asked, that day Sherlock walked into 221B Baker Street escorted by one Mycroft Holmes, but his answer had been short and vague: “An alien. And a blue spaceship.”

            John had chalked it up to some sort of post-traumatic stress speaking.

Sherlock gives John a look like _what_ , even though John _knows_ that Sherlock knows that he knows that Sherlock knows perfectly well _what_.

            There’s a sudden knock on the door and Sherlock pauses in his plucking.

The door opens and a brunette pokes their head in.

            “Have you seen my keys?” Mrs. Hudson inquires.

John gets up and helps her look for them while Sherlock continues sitting in his armchair, plucking away at his violin.

            “Is there a problem?” John asks when the door opens again a little while later.

It’s not Mrs. Hudson.

            “Oh, you must be John,” says the man wearing a brown suit and bowtie.

Sherlock, was lounged back in his chair, sits forward instantly, eyes flying open. “You.” He says in an almost accusatory voice.

            The man opens the door wider and steps in. “I hope you don’t mind me dropping by,” He says with a smile. He holds out a hand to John, “I’m the Doctor.” He says.

            John wrinkles his nose, “Doctor who?”

“Just the Doctor. I’m a time traveler.” The Doctor says, shaking John’s hand vigorously.

            “Sorry, what?”

“Come on,” he replies, a look entering his eyes. “I’ll show you.” With that, he drags John –whose hand he’s still holding –out of the room and down the stairs, Sherlock hurrying after them.

            John barely manages to grab his coat and cane.

There’s an old-fashioned police box outside and John swears in all of his time living at 221B Baker Street, he has _never_ seen it before. The door flies open and a ginger-haired woman ushers them in with a smile.

            He’s sitting on the floor of the room –which is considerably larger than it should be –and Sherlock’s talking to the Doctor, looking angry (but in a different way, not like he’s usually angry, when something goes wrong with a case or Anderson says something stupid. Or just when Anderson says something, that works, too.).

            “What d’you think about 1891?” the Doctor’s asking, and John just sits there, dazed.

“I’m Amy,” says the ginger, “Amy Pond. This is Rory,”

            Somewhere in the back of his mind, John recalls mentions of blue spaceships and aliens. 


	3. Doctor Who & Crew, Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introductions are in order...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normal disclaimers. Do not own. Blah blah.
> 
> Note: Teehee! This was really fun to write. :)

Chapter Three, Part I: _Doctor Who & Crew_

 

There’s a sudden rush of air and John’s pretty sure they’ve stopped.

            He looks around the room –the… the… what had the Doctor called it? The TARDIS? Capital letters? John can’t quite remember. He wasn’t really listening earlier…

            Sherlock is hovering near the Doctor, arms crossed and a complaint written all over his face, even if he wasn’t saying anything.

“1891 London,” the Doctor says cheerfully, pulling down a lever and then hurrying towards the door. “Fancy a look around?”

            Amy and Rory follow him outside, no hesitation in their steps. Sherlock turns and gestures for John to come along. He moves reluctantly, wishing he had his cane. It would give him something to do. Support in this strange situation. Of course, John has experienced _strange_ before, but it was _normal_ strange… not like … _this_ -strange.

            Because this _was_ strange.

Despite all the talk of time-travel and 1891 London that had been going on, John hadn’t expected to actually be staring at what was probably _legitimately_ 1891 London.

            He recognizes the area.

Across the road, is 221B Baker Street. It looks newer, cleaner; less worn down.

            The Doctor is already crossing the street, dancing between traffic, which is a mix between horse-drawn carriages and old-fashioned cars. John follows the others, his mouth hanging open as he looks around at everything.

            The Doctor knocks once on the door. It’s opened by a tall, older lady.

“Yes?” She asks with a patient, hospitable smile, “How may I help you?” She glances for a moment to their clothes then politely reverts her gaze to the Doctor’s face.

            “Hi, I’m the Doctor. We’re just stopping by for a visit,”

“I’m afraid neither Mr. Holmes nor Dr. Watson are here,” says the woman. “Would you like to come in, though?”

            As she closes the door behind them, she says, “I’m Martha Hudson, the landlady. If you’re a doctor, you must be here to see Dr. Watson.”

            The Doctor nods, just going along with it.

John looks over to Sherlock. There’s a small crease between his brow as he frowns.

            “The lot of you?”

“Oh,” Amy worms her way through the small space of the front hall they’ve gathered in. “I’m Amy,”

            “Rory,” he shakes Mrs. Hudson’s hand briefly.

“Excuse me,” Says Sherlock somewhat sharply, “Do you know where Mr. _Holmes_ and Dr. _Watson_ ” –the corner of his mouth twitches –“Have gone?”

            “Inspector Lestrade came around earlier,” She nods, “I suspect they’ve gone to investigate a case. There was a murder down near Regent’s Park… the poor fellow.”

            Sherlock is gone like that, and the rest of the group quickly follows.

“Ooh!” The Doctor remarks, almost skipping.

“Did I hear correctly?” John says as he half runs to keep up (he knows he heard correctly, though), “Did she say her name was _Hudson_ and that _Holmes_ and _Watson_ were out?”

            “Aren’t _you_ a Watson, though?” Rory asks, “And isn’t _he_ a Holmes?”

“Have your families worked together for a long time?” Amy wonders.

            The Doctor glances back at them, hearing this, and grins, indicating that the answer is _no_.

Sherlock is paying no attention, intent on reaching his destination.

            They rush recklessly through the streets, through traffic, and then they’re at Regent’s Park, and it doesn’t look even vaguely like it does… well, in the future.

            There are police officers swarming all over the area, and Sherlock is able to detect the location of the murder victim like he has a sixth sense for it. There are three men standing over the body –a short man with his neck twisted. The first is an older, bearded man, with an irritated expression; the second is a man in his late thirties, mustached and appearing quite dignified with his top hat and elegant black cane; the third man is shorter than the other two, with messy dark hair and shabbier clothing. He’s talking quickly, snapping at the first man and waving his arms wildly, a maniac gleam in his eye. He stops talking abruptly and hones in on Sherlock and the others with sharp eyes.

            “Hey, you can’t be ‘ere,” Says the first man as Sherlock comes to a stop in front of them.

            The Doctor reaches into his pocket and flashes the man a small leather wallet. “You will find that I am recognized internationally as an expert in”

            “-Fraud.” Says the dark-haired man, looking quite unimpressed.

The Doctor pauses and then blinks.

            The mustached brunette frowns.

“Yes, well, sometimes that happens.” The Doctor says a bit sheepishly as he shrugs, “You must be Sherlock Holmes.”

\---

 

Chapter Three, Part Two: _Sherlock Holmes_

 

Holmes’s eyes flicker from the man –whose badge said ‘ _International Criminal Police Organization –Doctor_ ’ –to his companions.

            They’re dressed somewhat strangely, especially the red-haired woman. Although quite beautiful, she’s wearing a scandalously short skirt, and what appears to be a red undershirt.

            Watson observes that poor Lestrade’s face is growing redder and redder by the minute.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes,” Holmes acknowledges, “But what I’m wondering is, who are _you_? You show us a wallet, as if identifying yourself, but the inside holds nothing but a piece of paper. You’re companions are dressed strangely.” Holmes glances to the short man with light brown hair. “You’re an ex-soldier. As you approached, you walked with a limp, but your leg is, in fact, perfectly uninjured –a psychosomatic limp, if you will. Interesting.” He observes the others silently, without announcing his deductions aloud, and Watson notices that the man in the dark coat and scarf is glaring at Holmes, his eyes moving just as fast, just as critically over Holmes and himself.

            “I’m the Doctor,” Says the man with the bow tie. He reaches out to shake Holmes’s hand.

“Doctor who-?” Begins Lestrade.

“- _Just_ the Doctor.” Snaps the man with the scarf.

            Watson leans forward, gripping his cane tightly, and says “Sorry, I’m not sure I caught _your_ names.”

            “Oh” –And the Doctor grins at this –“This is Amy and Rory,” He gestures to the woman and the man standing next to her, “And over here, John and Sherlock.”

            “What-?” Lestrade starts, and this time it’s Holmes who interrupts snappishly:

“Oh run off, Inspector,” He says impatiently, “You’ll find that the murderer is 1.7 meters, brunette, and has recently visited a morgue or laboratory.”

            Lestrade looks ready to protest, but finally decides it’s not worth the energy, and puts on his hat and calls for someone to take the corpse away.

            “Sherlock.” Holmes says curtly. “A Sherlock Holmes, I’ll presume. Then you must be John _Watson_ ,” He turns to look at the brunette, who is possibly one of the few full grown men he has ever met who is shorter than he is.

            Watson leans even farther forward to look down at this ‘John Watson’ also.

He stands with a straight posture and doesn’t allow himself to be intimidated, but does lose a bit of dignity because he has to look up to return Watson’s look.

            “Well, explanations are in order,” the Doctor says, “We…” He steps closer, as if revealing a big secret “are _time_ _travelers_. Sherlock and John here live in 221B Baker Street in just over one-hundred years –starting in the year 2010, I believe.”

            There’s a visible twitch of Holmes’ eye.

Watson is hearing the words, but as a man of science, is a strict disbeliever of fantasies such as _time travel._

            Meanwhile, Holmes and… Sherlock are staring each other down. Well, technically, Sherlock is staring Holmes down. He’s taller and (good God, look at those flimsy wrists!) narrower, skinnier.

            Downright _bony_ , Watson thinks.

“Time travel.” Holmes repeats finally. He seems to accept the explanation surprisingly easily. Watson was expecting denial; during the case with Lord Blackwood, Holmes had been one of the only people to never believe in any way that there was something ‘magical’ going on. “So you’re saying that in a century and a few years, a Sherlock Holmes and a John Watson will live in 221B Baker Street. Let me guess. Consulting detective and ex-army-surgeon.” There’s a cold edge to his voice, but he’s still not putting down the claims to time-travel. In a flash, Holmes has taken Watson’s cane. He uses it to lift Sherlock’s left hand before the man knows what’s going on. “Hm.” And then he unsheathes the saber within and Watson quickly jumps forward as Holmes makes to poke experimentally at the Doctor.

            “Sorry,” Watson finds himself apologizing on Holmes’s behalf as he wrestles the sword back and sticks it back into its sheath, disguising it once more as a cane.

            Rory, Amy, and John are staring at Watson with wide eyes, but he notices that the short fellow known as the _other_ ‘John Watson’ is mostly staring with an expression of ‘ _Wow, where can I get one of_ those _?’_

            He can’t help but feel amused at that.

Meanwhile, Sherlock is still glaring Holmes down.

            “So,” the Doctor says into the following quietness, “This is exciting… and awkward,” He adds under his breath.

            Sherlock’s gaze snaps to him. “ _No_.” He says, “John, we’re going home. Doctor, take us back. I’m fed up with this.”

The Doctor begins to protest.

            “ _No_.” Sherlock says again, “This entire escapade has been completely ridiculous! You!” He jabs an accusing finger at the Doctor, who goes cross-eyed to keep it in his view. “First you grab me in your ‘TARDIS’ as I fell from a building –I _jumped_ –and you said, ‘Why hello, there, want to go on an adventure?’ No! Now _this_ –this is the _last straw_!”

            As he ranted, the Doctor’s eyebrows (lack thereof) were slowly receding into his hairline (that is, they would be, if he had eyebrows).

            Sherlock grabs John’s arm and marches away and the Doctor glances over to Holmes and Watson. “Uh, we’ll be a moment.” Then he hurries after Sherlock and John.

            “So, um,” Rory says, “Hello.”

            Amy giggles.

Watson glances over to her and then to Rory and gives him a pointed look, “This is 1891,” He says.

            And then Rory gets a clue and takes off his jacket and gives it to Amy, who puts it on and covers up her bare arms. The skirt cannot be helped.

 

 

Chapter Three, Part Three: _Sherlock_

 

John can’t find his feet as Sherlock drags him down the street, so he just stumbles along.

“Where’re you going?” Asks the Doctor, who’s run after them.

            “Home,” Sherlock says, “And you’re taking us!” They turned the corner to where the TARDIS was parked and stopped.

            There is a little yellow slip tucked into the window.

The Doctor plucks it up and then groans, “Parking ticket?” He whirls around, “Again?!” He crumbles the ticket in his hand and shakes his fist in the air. “Change of plans, Sherlock. We’re staying here until I find out who left me this parking ticket!”

            Sherlock grabs it from his hand, “Are you serious?!”

“Deadly!” The Doctor declares.

            Sherlock looks at the ticket, “The automobile has barely been around for a year,” He says, “And if you looked closely, you would see that this,” He smooths the paper out, “It’s American. Issued fourteenth of September, 2012.”

            “But I’ve never been to the fourteenth of September, 2012,” The Doctor says. Then he grins, “It looks like we’ve got some out-of-time Americans to find!”


	4. Supernatural

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which shit is figured out, and a shit load more questions appears.

Chapter Four: _Supernatural_

 

**One Hour Earlier…**

Sam opened his eyes and found that he was _definitely_ not in Kansas anymore.

            He scrambled to his feet, “Dean?” He called, and okay, at least it seemed that he wasn’t being held prisoner anywhere or something. He had been lying in the middle of an alleyway, and it was midday, but not exactly sunny. “Dean!” He yelled, stumbling toward the mouth of the alley.

            What the hell.

Sam jumped back as a horse-drawn carriage rushed by him. Then came an old-fashioned car whose driver was wearing goggles and holy crap.

            Sam blinked.

The street was cobble stone, the people wore Victorian-era clothing and oh God –they were speaking with British accents!

            “Sam!”

He turned to find Castiel and Dean hurrying toward him from a little ways down the sidewalk.

            “Dude,” Sam sputtered, “I think we got, like, zapped back to England or something.”

“Yeah,” Dean said breathlessly, and held up an old newspaper. “London, England, and get this - _1891_.”

            Sam snatched up the paper and checked the date.

Yup. Eighteen-freakin’-ninety-one.

Jesus Christ.

            “Cas, can’t you take us back?” Sam asked. He wasn’t very optimistic about the answer.

The angel shook his head. “No. It takes much energy on my part to simply take us back twenty years. This is over one hundred.” He frowned.

            “Shit, what _happened_? I swear, Dean, it was the angel statues, but… how?”

“Possessed statues?” Dean attempted to fathom the situation, decided it made his head hurt, and quickly gave up with a shrug. He glanced at Castiel for any suggestions.

            The angel had an expression of extreme concentration.

It was pretty intense.

            Dean and Sam watched him for a few minutes before Sam realized Castiel was just staring at something down the sidewalk. Specifically, a blue police box stationed on the edge of the sidewalk.

            Sam sighed and grabbed Dean by the arm and dragged him down the way, “Come on, we can at least stop drawing attention to ourselves by standing in the middle of the sidewalk.”

“Ow!” Dean protested, stumbling along and getting hit in the shoulder by the obstructive police box. He pulled out of Sam’s grip and rolled his shoulder, making a face. “Goddammit, Sam.”

            “That is blasphemy,” Castiel responded automatically, but not with nearly as much irritation has he’d had the first time Dean had been taking the Lord’s name in vain.

“No, _that_ thing is blasphemous,” Dean said, shooting daggers at the blue box while he continued to rub his shoulder. “Also, Sam.” He found a week-old parking ticket in his pocket and decided it would be a good idea to slap it onto the window of the so called ‘Police Box’.

            What was a police box, anyway?

Sam figured it was something like a telephone booth where maybe you called the police when you were in trouble or … no, fuck it, he had no idea.

            Besides, there were more serious things to think about at the moment. For example: How the hell did they get to London, England? How could they get _back_? What sent them there? And while they were researching or whatever, would Dean maybe allow Sam to do a little bit of sight-seeing? They were, after all, in London, England.

\---

 

**Now…**

Sam isn’t allowed to do any sightseeing.

            “We have to get back,” Dean had reminded him, and Sam _knows_ but _come on_! They may’ve traveled all over the back roads and small towns of America, but they’d never been out of the country. Heaven and Hell, but not another country!

            Sam is quite certain his disappointment is reasonable, even if Dean doesn’t see it that way.

            At the moment, they’re sitting in a café, where the waitress is shooting them dirty looks because they’ve been ‘looking at the menu’ for the past forty-five minutes, and also because they’re dressed strangely and they stick out like sore thumbs. Dean is legitimately trying to pretend he can’t decide what to order, while Castiel stares intently at the table, deep in thought, or perhaps just extremely enthralled by the pattern of the wood top. Sam, who has given up for the time being and has let his attention wander to the street outside, suspects the former.

            There’s a sudden tapping on the glass that makes Sam straighten up in his seat, startled.

Lucifer waves impishly from the other side of the glass and presses his hand up to the window. “Hi Sam,” he mouths.

            Sam scowls and looks away.

“Aw, come on,” Lucifer is suddenly leaning over Sam, one hand resting on his shoulder.

            Sam shifts, shrugging the hand away.

Dean glances up at him for a moment before looking away again.

            “So, London, England?’ Lucifer says, appearing in an empty seat at a table nearby.

Sam frowns.

            “No way to get back… don’t know how you got here… Outlook isn’t looking too bright, huh, Sammy?” This earns the Devil a glare. “Hey. I’m telling it how it is.”

“Dean,” Sam says loudly, ignoring Lucifer, “I think we should move out. We don’t have any money –useful money –so there’s no point staying until they call the cops on us.”

            Dean nods and puts the menu down and stands up.

“I have been trying to reach out to Heaven,” Castiel tells them as they exit the café. “So far, no one has answered me.”

            Dean looks ready to make a comment about how the angels up there are being dickwads, but is cut off my Castiel, who continues; “I suspect that this city is cut-off from Heaven’s view, so even if my brothers could hear me, it would be only a faint call they would be unable to find the location of.”

            “That sucks.” Dean huffs.

“What if we left London?” Sam asks, “Step out from under the blanket, so to speak?”

“It’s worth a try,” Castiel looks dubious though, “Unfortunately, we do not know how far this veil extends…”

            “Hey!” Lucifer exclaims, a bit sarcastic, “Why don’t you just find other people who’ve taken a trip back in time, too?”

            Sam doesn’t so much as turn his head to look at him.

Lucifer sighs heavily, “You’re going the wrong way.” He grumbles, “The police box is the other way,”

            This time, Sam can’t help but frown slightly and glance over.

“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,” Lucifer breaks into a grin and begins to skip along beside them down the street, “ _Sam_! And I thought you were supposed to be the smart one! Remember those terrible old cop movies you used to watch?” He’s just being a smug little bastard now, “The police boxes, Sam, they were-”

            “Dean, wait,” Sam stops suddenly.

“Dude, what?”

            “What year is it? 1891? Dude, that thing was from the 60s!”

“What thing? Sam!” Dean calls as Sam turns and rushes back down the street to where they had originally arrived.

            He crosses the street and narrowly avoids getting run over by a horse-drawn carriage. Two cars honk at him as he dashes across the rest of the road.

            The police box is still sitting in the middle of the sidewalk where it was earlier and Sam trips over his own stumbling feet on his way over.

“Sam!” Dean yells as he and Castiel cross the street.            

            Sam’s sitting on his butt and Dean and Cas have just made it over when the door of the police box suddenly flies open.

            “Aha,” says the man standing in the doorway.  He’s wearing a brown suit, a bowtie, and the delighted grin that Sam can imagine Gabriel wearing in a candy shop. “You must be our lost Americans.” He holds out his hand to help Sam up, “Hello, I’m the Doctor.”


	5. Supernatural

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam does not know anyone's names and an actual plot develops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincere apologies! Internet connection was down yesterday so I was unable to upload this chapter. :(

Chapter Five, Part One: Supernatural

What the fuck. 

            What. The. Actual. _Fuck_.

One second, Sam was getting pulled to his feet by the stranger –the _Doctor_? –and then was getting pulled into the police box (it took two tries; the first time, he got his head hit against the top of the doorway) and _what the fuck_.

            He’s standing in a giant control room, and goddammit, it wasn’t this big on the outside!

“Whoa, hey, who the hell are you?!” Dean’s exclaiming indignantly as he’s yanked into the room as well. Castiel follows with a mild expression.

            “Didn’t I already say?” the man asks in a British accent as he frowns slightly, “I’m the Doctor.”

            “Doctor for _what_?” Dean says with irritation.

“Oh, well, nothing in particular. Time and space, I suppose.” He shrugs. 

            Sam looks around him. There are two other men standing in the room. One of them is shorter (like, _really_ short –almost a foot shorter than Sam) and blonde; the other is tall, slender, and dark-haired. The taller one is wearing navy coat, purple scarf, and a –good Lord, Dean would call that bitch-face number thirty-two. Jesus.

            The Doctor takes out a weird medieval-torture-device-looking thing and points it at Sam, Dean, and Castiel. There’s a quick green light as he seems to scan them with it.

“What’re you doing?” Dean demands.

            “Just making sure the angels didn’t harm you…” He stops scanning them and looks down at the screwdriver, frowns, and then glances at Castiel. 

“ _What is that_?” Dean asks.

“Sonic screwdriver. It does pretty much everything. Except wood.”

“Of course,” Dean says sarcastically. “Now who the fuck are you?”

            “I told you,” The Doctor starts with a frown.

“Right, the ‘doctor’.” Dean says flatly. “What do you want with us?”

            “Nothing. I’m taking you back.” The Doctor says.

Except apparently not right away.

            There’s an urgent knocking on the door and the Doctor frowns and goes to open it. There’s a really hot ginger standing there, and Sam can see Dean’s eyes widen.

“Doctor!” She cries, helping a (previously unseen, also mostly unconscious) man into the room, “There were black-eyed aliens”

“-why is it always me…?” the man she’s supporting asks feebly. 

“-They attacked Rory!”

            “Black-eyed aliens?” the Doctor repeats with a frown.

“What is this?” 

            Two other men have followed them in and are standing in the doorway. They’re dressed in Victorian-era clothing. One is sporting a very impressive mustache and a bewildered expression, and the other is scanning his surroundings just as greedily as the man in the corner with the purple scarf.

            Fact of the matter is, Sam thinks their eyeballs a practically having seizures in their sockets.

            “What happened?” The Doctor asks the woman, before turning to look at the man named Rory.

“We were waiting back in the park,” she says, “Rory wandered away for ten seconds- _ten seconds_ , mind, and”

            “Amy, I need a better description,” the Doctor interrupts “there are a lot of beings with black eyes.”

            “It was Mr. Lombard,” says the man with the mustache (Also British, Sam notes. Everyone’s British.), “He works at the grocer’s. 

            “Alright, someone you know.” he starts muttering “Shape shifter, perhaps some form of mind control,” the crease in his forehead deepens as he seems to scan his own mind- “perhaps an energy of some sort, or a parasite-”

            Sam straightens up, “Black eyes?” he shoots Dean and Castiel a look.

            The Doctor sends Sam an inquisitive glance. “You know something?”

            Sam and Dean once again exchange significant looks.

            “Demons,” says Cas.

            “Excuse me?” the Doctor says, narrowing his eyes.

“Demons,” Castiel says again, leaning forward. “It would appear that one has attacked Amelia’s friend.”

            “Amelia?” Amy mouths to herself as the Doctor says dubiously, “Demons? Oh, humans are always blaming anything they don’t understand on ‘evil’…”

            “I am being quite genuine.” Castiel insists. 

The man with the scarf frowns.

            Sam notes that eyeballs are still twitching all around the room.

“Dean?” He says. “Sound like our type of thing?”

            “Yep.” Dean says, turning to the Doctor, “Look Doc, this is serious. Obviously, you know about a few funny things, but you’re probably dealing with real, black-eyed, soulless demons from Hell here. You’re probably going to need our help, too.”

            “Wait, hold on, can I just interject…” Amy leans forward, glancing between the Doctor and Dean, “Who exactly are you three?”

            “Americans. Lost in time. Weeping Angels, I’m guessing,” the Doctor waves his hand in a dismissive manner, “Oh wait! Names, you mean? Names. Of course. Hey, you”

“-Dean,” Dean says. He nods toward Sam and Castiel, “Sam and Cas.”

            “Castiel.” Castiel follows up. 

“You said you could take us back?” Sam asks the Doctor, who nods.

            “Great, then we’ll just pop out there, Cas can smite the demon, and we’ll have one less black-eyed bitch to worry about in the future.” Dean says.

            “I’m sorry,” the Doctor frowns, “What organization are you from? I wasn’t aware that the Americans had people who”

“-We’re not from an organization.” Dean interrupts, looking irritated by the thought. “We don’t work for anybody. We’re called Hunters.”

            The Man With the Scarf narrowed his eyes. “Hunters.” He repeated. “The three of you.”

“I’m” Castiel starts,

“-well are we going to go exorcise the sonuvabitch or what?” Dean says, impatient.

            “You won’t mind if I tag along, will you?” asks the short man (the taller short man –not the shorter short man. There are two. Sam should really ask for names. This is confusing.), his mouth quirking with amusement. The one next to him –the Man With the Mustache –looks tense and awed at his surroundings at the same time.

            “Just don’t get in the way,” Sam says, nodding awkwardly.

“Seriously.” Dean adds, less enthused with the idea.

            “I’m coming, too,” Amy declares. Amelia’s Friend frowns. 

In the end, as Castiel, Sam, and Dean leave the blue… thing(?), they are followed by an audience of seven, the Man with the Scarf and the Short Man With the Cane (the shortest short one, that is) tailing along at the end.


	6. Sherlock Holmes & Supernatural

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! On time this week! :) I'm a little unsatisfied with the length, but I hope the er, quality (???) makes up for it. As you see, there is a (very poorly written) deduce-off. :|  
> -TSM

Chapter Six, Part One: _Sherlock Holmes_

“Holmes,” Watson hisses as they follow the Americans –what were their names? Oh right; Sam, Dean, and Castiel.

            Holmes raises his eyebrows in acknowledgement and then glances over to him.

“Do you have _any_ idea what’s going on?”

            “Certainly,” Holmes replies, “We’re going to watch these men exorcise a demon.”

“I must be dreaming.” Watson mutters, leaning on his cane as he walks, “First those two… those _us_ -es and the police box that was in fact _not_ a police box… the Americans… Do people honestly dress like that in the future? What am I saying? _Time_ - _travel_!” He scoffs. __

“What’s to say that the people in the future _haven’t_ discovered ways to travel back in time?” Holmes muses. “ _We_ can’t assume anything.”

“Yes, but what about the part about demons?”

            “You saw Mr. Lombard for yourself,” Holmes says, “Personally, I suspect some sort of illusion for the eyes and chemical intoxication to explain his uncharacteristic hostility…”

“A hallucinatory drug,” Interrupts the Other Holmes (as Watson has come to think of him), “Speaking of which, it would appear that the giant Sam Winchester is on something as well.”

            Holmes nods stiffly, “He appears to suffer from both insomnia and hallucinations. Which is induced from which, I wonder?”

            “The question is,” the Other Holmes says in a condescending sort of voice that Holmes himself often times uses with everyone, “Do his hallucinations create violent tendencies? Is he actually leading us to a trap? Did you notice that the corner of his jacket sleeve has a bit of sulfur on it?”

            “Just like the body, I know. And also like our ‘possessed’ Mr. Lombard. He did, in fact, smell strongly of sulfur.”

“As I guessed he would,” the Other Holmes nods with satisfaction.

            “If Sam Winchester was leading us to a ‘trap’,” Holmes continues dubiously, “His brother, someone he trusts immensely”

“-But who doesn’t trust _him_ entirely. He wants to, but he doesn’t”

“-All part of my point…” Holmes frowns, “Holmes, I suppose. His brother and their acquaintance know nothing of the trap, if indeed he were leading us to one. He is not. They genuinely believe that we are going off to exorcise a demon.”

            “That’s ridiculous.” Says the Other Watson, keeping stride with the Other Holmes easily. He hardly even uses the cane in his hand.

            Watson wonders if he truly even requires it. He finds the Other Watson and Holmes strange. Here they were, claiming to be Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, yet they are so… he can’t think of a good word to summarize it. Different, yes, but also … oh forget it!

            “That, I must agree with.” Watson says.

“Isn’t this entire situation ridiculous?” Holmes challenges, “Or wouldn’t it be, if we were not seeing it with our own eyes?”

            “I hardly believe it anyway.”

 

Chapter Six, Part Two: _Supernatural_

 

“And this is where you were attacked?” Dean asks.

            Amy nods.

Castiel looks around and nods as well, “A demon has been here. It has not gone far. I can still sense it in the area.”

            “Sense” –the Doctor starts questioningly.

Castiel moves past him and looks across the park. “You have not brought along any supplies for a Devil’s Trap. It will be easiest for me to just seek out the demon and cast him out without you.” He says, turning back to Sam and Dean.

            Dean looks disgruntled by this.

“I’d like to talk to it,” The Short Man (But Not the Shortest) says from where he stands next to it

            “What?” Dean splutters.

“Even animals don’t attack without reason. I’d like to question it.” He explains.

“Uh, have you been listening?” Dean says, “It’s a demon. We don’t have anything to hold it down. We exorcise it and then we’re _out_.”

            “What’s the Devil’s Trap, then? Is that some device that holds a demon?”

“Dude, look, you’re not gonna have a chance to question the demon.” Dean sighs.

“Um… excuse me?” Amy’s Friend cuts in, “I think Castel”

“-Cas _tiel_ ” Dean corrects automatically.

“Yeah, he already left.”

            Dean just shrugs, “He does that a lot.”

            The Short Man (But Not the Shortest) looks around with irritation. The Man with the Scarf has a similar expression. The Man with the Mustache and the Short Man with the Cane, as well as Amy and Amy’s Friend are looking around in bewilderment.

            The Doctor has taken out his _thing_ –that weird, medieval-torture-device looking metal stick –and is frowning. “He’s gone.” His eyes narrow and he looks back to Dean and Sam, suspicious. “The Americans are always the strangest ones,” he says, almost to himself, “What is your friend, exactly? Castiel?”

            “I’d like to know that as well, actually,” the Man with the Scarf says, “Everything I’ve noticed about him doesn’t add up. First of all, he has no scent, whatsoever. There is no indication that he has eaten recently, yet he remains in perfect health. His clothes”

            “-Are far too clean, given that he’s been walking around the streets of London for at least three hours.” Says the Short Man (But Not the –oh, you know!).

            Suddenly, everyone has rounded on Sam and Dean, demon seemingly forgotten.

Castiel chooses this time to reappear with a soft flapping of unseen wings. His back is turned to the others as he reports directly to Dean, “We fought. The demon chose to abandon its vessel. It escaped.”

            He turns to find everyone staring at him with shock. The Doctor has raised his _thing_ in a defensive manner.           

            It sparks, and light crackles out of the end, hitting Castiel.

He blinks and frowns, as if wondering what the intended effect was.

            The effect (or lack thereof) is significant to the Doctor, though. He, Amy, and Amy’s friend step away, eyes widening.

            “I assure you, I am not an alien creature.” Cas says out of the blue. “You need not concern yourselves.” He looks at them solemnly and Sam knows what’s coming – “I am in Angel of the Lord.”

            Sam _knew_ it. Castiel totally had his _I’m an Angel of the Lord_ face on.

 


	7. Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I seriously apologize for the crap chapters of late. End of school is busy, and summer won't be any better. Expect a couple of hiatuses, unless LL manages to write the next chapters (she's currently in a place with limited internet connection)... I have to go to a couple of places over the summer that does not include technology (i.e, music camps and whatnot). Terribly sorry!  
> -TSM

Chapter Seven: _Sherlock_

 

“An angel,” The Doctor repeats dubiously.

            Sam and Dean are both rolling their eyes at Castiel like they’re used to hearing this.

John wonders if maybe Castiel has a Condition. Maybe he should recommend his therapist.

            Castiel nods solemnly. It seems to be his default emotion.

John can sort of see how the man might believe himself to be an angel. There’s a sort of self-righteousness about him and –what is he saying? There’s no such thing as angels!

            The Doctor sighs, “Castiel, was it? Right. This isn’t the time for that. I’m sorry to break it to you, but I’ve been monitoring this planet for a while, and there are no such things are angels. Besides the weeping ones, of course”

            “-What the hell are these stupid crying angels you keeping talking about?” Dean interrupts.

            “ _Weeping Angels_.” The Doctor responds, “They’re aliens that enjoy sending unsuspecting fellows like you back in time. They feed off the energy from the time rifts.” Then he seems to realize he’s been making small-talk with the current subjects of suspicion. “Now what are you really?” He turns back to Castiel,

            _Besides in denial_ , John doesn’t add aloud.

It’s Castiel’s turn to sigh and look impatient. “Truly,” he says, “I am an Angel of the Lord. Can we please focus on the matter at hand? The demon has escaped.”

            “That is not currently the matter at hand.” Says the Other Sherlock (the old one, well, okay he’s not so old, maybe late thirties, early forties. Who was John to talk? He’d passed his twenties years ago as well. Amy and Rory were easily the youngest –and on that note, energetic –of the lot of them. Hang on –no, John. Bad; stay on topic. Focus.)

            “This conversation is pointless.” Castiel declares, heaving another sigh and looking up in exasperation.

“Hardly,” The Doctor says. He holds up the sparking-thing from earlier. “My sonic’s gone mental, and best guess, it’s because of you.” A dark look crosses his features.

            “Yeah, it probably is,” Dean breaks in, looking more than a little irritated, “And it’s not because Cas is a freakin’ _alien_ , okay?”

            _Uh oh_ , John thinks to himself. Dangerous territory has been crossed and the guard dog has been revealed.

            “Dean,” Sam says in a low warning voice. John can see how he might be stressed. They’re stuck in the 1800s without the Doctor.

            “We appreciate your assistance,” Castiel says quietly to the Doctor, “But we need to rid this city of the demon, return to the future, and kill the ‘weeping angel’,” -here, he inserted exaggerated air quotes – “that sent us here.”

            “You can’t kill them,” the Doctor says, “They’re stone.”

“Well you can break stone,” Dean says.

            “It doesn’t work like that. You’d blink first.”

“They get you when you look away,” Amy explains.

            A look of understanding crosses Sam’s features.

Castiel frowns, “Blinking is not an issue.”

            Dean smirks at that.

“The issue is that I’m not taking you anywhere until I know what you are.” The Doctor says stubbornly, bringing the conversation back in a circle.

“I would perform a small miracle to convince you, but I’ve found that in the past it hasn’t worked. And I’m cut off from Heaven at the moment.”

            “Dude,” Dean says, “Just try doing something.”

Castiel reaches out and the ‘sonic’ sparks again in the Doctor’s hand, crackles with electricity and falls silent as the Doctor jumps and drops it on the ground.

            “What was that?” the Doctor says, “ _What_ was that? You call that a miracle?” He stoops down and picks it back up gingerly. “That’s a _terrible_ miracle.”

            “I assure you,” Castiel says, “It is fixed.”

The Doctor stares at his sonic, “No it’s not! It’s going to take days to repair. You’ve short circuited almost everything.” The sonic let out a last sputter of a spark as emphasis.

            “My apologies.” Castiel frowns, “That was not my intention.”

“Intention or not”

“-Hey, _hey_.” Dean interrupts. He’s positioned himself so that he’s standing in between Castiel and his brother, and the rest of them.          His arms are outstretched, keeping everyone at a distance, away from each other. “Look, you’ve gotta trust on this, Doc. I mean, even if you don’t believe Cas is an angel, you must’ve met a good alien before, right? Aren’t there good aliens?”

            The Doctor relaxed his defensive stance a little.

“I suggest,” says the Other John, “That if there’s not going to be any more fighting, we move our conversation to somewhere a little more private.”

            Everyone looks around, as if just remembering they’re standing in a public park. A couple of women passing by watch them with curiosity.

            And that’s more or less how they all end up in 221B Baker Street. Introductions are finally put into order when Sam Winchester mentions that he doesn’t even know their names.

            “Amy Pond,” The Doctor points around the room, “Rory Williams, Dr. John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, and Sherlock Holmes.”

            Dean raises his eyebrows at this.

The look on his face when the Other John offers him a cup of tea is comical. John lets out a snort of amusement. The Other John glances at him and although his solemn expression does not falter, his mustache twitches and there’s a glint in his eye that suggests that he finds hilarity at Dean’s expense as well.

            Sam takes a cup of tea out of politeness while Castiel and Dean end up turning down the offer. They all settle down around the main room of the flat.

            John looks around the apartment and notes that the small burn in the corner of the room that he always thought Sherlock had caused was already there in 1891.

            There’s tenseness in the air.

Sam scowls and scratches his ear, then switches to rest against the left side of his chair, as opposed to the right.

            John remembers Sherlock and the Other Sherlock discussing Sam having hallucinations. He wonders if they’re going on at the moment.

            Dean stands restlessly by the window while Castiel stands rooted in the corner he stands, completely unmoving.

“Alright,” Dean bursts out, “If we’re done with afternoon tea, can we please get moving? We’ve got a demon to catch, and we’ve got the apocalypse back in 2012, so”

“ _What_?” Rory chokes and sputters.

            Amy pats his shoulder.

“Well it’s not exactly… doing anything,” Sam assures. “I mean, it’s probably going to blow up in our faces, but for the moment, you could say the volcano is dormant.”

            “Your ability to create metaphors is appreciated,” Dean mutters sarcastically.

The Other Sherlock fidgets in his armchair and sets down the pipe he’s been holding in his mouth and reaches down and picks up an old violin. He plucks tunelessly and appears to space out completely.

            Sherlock’s eyes narrow and he glares across at the Other –oh what the hell – _Holmes_ (that’s less confusing isn’t it?).

            A few moments pass.

 _Watson_ looks unperturbed by Holmes’s plucking.

“Stop that,” Sherlock demands finally,

            “Stop what?” Holmes sits up straight and looks around.

“ _Plucking_.” Sherlock says.

            Holmes looks down at his violin and shrugs, tucking it under his arm. He returns his pipe to his mouth and crosses his legs. One foot swings up and down, hitting against the tip of his bow.

            “ _Holmes_ ,” Sherlock snaps.

Holmes raises an eyebrow and uncrosses his legs.

            John coughs and brings his cup up to his mouth to hide his grin.


	8. Supernatural & Doctor Who

Chapter Eight, Part One: _Supernatural_

“Let’s take inventory.” Dean says, pacing back and forth, “And maybe I’m going to get this wrong. There’s us: Hunters and an angel; there’s the Doctor and the Alien Hunters; there’s Sherlock Holmes and John Watson _Squared_ ; and then we’ve got _weeping_ angels and demons with currently unrevealed motives, running around London. Oh yeah, and time-travel. Did I miss anything?”

            Lucifer raises and waves his hand from where he’s perched against the windowsill.

Sam sighs.

            “There’s a chance,” Castiel says from where he stands looking out the window, “That this is not just a coincidence. I’ve been … attempting to reach out to Heaven, but I’ve still been unable to contact anyone. I am also unable to fly back.”

            “So what, you’re saying someone’s setting this up?” Dean asks, “We’re in a trap?”

“ _Duh_ ,” Lucifer rolls his eyes. He sighs heavily and walked over to Sam, leaning over his chair back, “Sammy, I’m _bored_. Come on, let’s do something _fun_.”

            Sam’s eye twitches but he remains facing the group, polite expression on his face as the Doctor and Sherlock start talking with irritation at the same time.

            “Sammy,” Lucifer whispers, mouth close to his ear. His breath has no heat, “Sam. You should be going after the demons? Get a move on. Kick some asses, huh?” he cackles and pokes at Sam’s shoulder.

            The younger Winchester winces once and then composes himself and stays still. He does his best to ignore Lucifer and tunes back into the conversation. While he wasn’t paying attention, John and Sherlock had risen to their feet. God, he needs to listen more carefully. He has no idea what is going on.

            “-Was I supposed to know you were alive?” John yells.

“Um,” The Doctor’s attempts to interject are drowned out by Sherlock, who even arguing seemed rather calm;

“You weren’t.”

“You could’ve told me”

“-I didn’t contact you to keep you safe!” Sherlock raises his voice, yelling this. “There were things I had to take _care_ of!”

            “And you!” John says, brandishing a Finger of Accusation at the Doctor. “ _You_ helped him fake his own death?”

            “Well, I owed him a favor,” the Doctor says, clearing his throat, “It was years ago but ah…” he trails off.

Watson suddenly barks a laugh. He’s sitting straight backed at the edge of his seat, his sword-cane leaning against his crossed legs as he sips his _cuppa_ (Sam’s pretty sure that’s what was mentioned earlier. He thinks it means _tea_ , but he’s not sure because when he opened his mouth, pretty much everyone in the room looked and him with an expression that quite obviously said _Oh you Americans._ )

            “Do you have something to add?” Sherlock says curtly, looking at the mustached man with critical eyes.

            “No,” Watson replies with a matching tone of voices, “Only that I can sympathize with death-faking Sherlock Holmeses.”

            Holmes, staring out into space with an idle expression, gives an exaggerated long-suffering sigh of _Oh God, not this again; I thought we talked about this_.

“Can you?” John says, throwing Sherlock a Look, “It must run in the… name.”

            “It must. Holmes all but threw himself off a cliff.” Watson said calmly, putting down his tea.

            Holmes rolls his eyes, “Yes, and the public is exactly aware of my return thanks to your _Adventure of the Empty House_.”

            “Don’t get any ideas,” Sherlock snaps at John.

“Oh please,” Lucifer rolls his eyes, “It’s not like you _actually_ died.”

            Sam shoots a sharp look at him because these are sensitive topics. Then he remembers that nobody even heard the Devil.

            “Um, can we get back to the part where this is all a huge trap?” Dean interjects.

“Right, that,” Amy says. “Do you reckon it _is_ a trap, Doctor?”

            “With everyone in this room and the circumstances of our gathering?” The Doctor says, adopting a thoughtful expression. He nods, lower lip jutting out a little and gaze directed toward the ceiling, “Most likely.”

            “There’s a great chance that this is a trap,” Castiel agrees gravely. He’s doing that thing where he repeats facts, saying it the same way every time -like it’s something new and should be regarded with caution.

“Ooh, _traps_ ,” Rory enthuses flatly.

“And we can assume the demon is behind it somehow,” Dean says.

“And how’s that?” Amy challenged.

            “Well, not to offend your weird alien hunting culture, but those quote Weeping Angels (unquote) don’t seem like the diabolical planning type.”

“Don’t _seem_ like,” the Doctor says darkly.

            At this point, a moment of silence falls over everyone. Amy fidgets uneasily.

“Well, in any case,” Sam inserts, speaking out loud in an attempt to ignore Lucifer, who is now making the lewdest of gestures in the corner, “We should keep our eyes open.”

            “If we go out and split up, we can track different leads and cover more ground,” Dean says,

“Excellent,” Holmes says begins someone else, which Sam completely misses because now Lucifer is flopping around on the ground in order to prove some sort of point.

“...don’t want anyone ganging up on”

“-That’s a bit unfair, don’t you think?” Rory is criticizing Dean.

“Oh no no,” Holmes says, “It’s a wonderful idea. Lovely. I love it, don’t you love it Watson?” He bounces his bow against his crossed legs and looks far too innocent.

            Sherlock narrows his eyes.

“How about this,” Holmes proposes, “Dean Winchester leads the group with Amy and”

            “-There is no need.” Castiel interrupts, “I will look for the demon and return once I determine its location and purpose.”

            “Cas,” Dean says disapprovingly, in a voice that clearly says _what if you get hurt_?

“Aw,” Lucifer croons, “He’s worried. Sam, he’s worried. Sammy, look.”

            “Heaven may not be answering my call;” Castiel says evenly, “But Hell is still on Earth. I suggest you all stay here.”

            Several mouths open for indignant protest, but Castiel continues, “You will not find anything. Not even you, Doctor,” he adds pointedly, “There are no leads _for_ you to follow. Ward the apartment. Do not leave.” He tilts his head for a moment, “But be alert.”

            There’s a flutter of wings and Castiel is gone.

            The reactions around the room are all different this second time Castiel has pulled his angel disappearing act. Dean huffs in irritation around the same time Sherlock crinkles his nose in annoyance at the undeniable truth in Castiel’s words. Holmes lights his pipe and sticks it between his teeth, sitting back in his seat.

            “So,” Rory says into the tense silence, “Is there any more tea?”

Watson goes to boil another kettle of water, bustling and making noise on his way out, but the tension remains.

            Sam sighs, “I guess we should make the wards,” he says, looking to Dean and then to Holmes, “Is it alright if you we-” he motions toward the windows and walls.

            Holmes shrugs and nods, and Sam says, “Great. We’re going to need a couple of things.”

 

Chapter Eight, Part Two: _Doctor Who_

 

            Among other things, the Winchesters require salt, paint, and knives.

“Is this an art class now?” Amy wonders idly as Sam begins to paint a circle on the wood flooring.

            Holmes and the Doctor have both left their seats to look on, both curious and neck deep in unfamiliar territory. Fish out of water.

            Sam winces as he paints the circles and obsessively repaints some places as if someone is going back and erasing them at the same time he’s drawing the lines.

            “What’re you doing?” Rory says sharply, looking over at Dean Winchester just as he begins to press the blade of one of the acquire knives to his skin. Everyone looks over, even Sherlock, who has been brooding in a corner, remaining sullenly and uncooperative even to speaking with John.

            Dean looks up, “Don’t worry, it’s part of the”

“-You have to cut yourself to do this?” Rory demands.

            Dean sighs, “Some of the sigils have to be made in human blood.” he explains.

“Well use my blood,” Rory blurts, deciding on the spur of the moment.

            “Look buddy, I’m used to doing this,” Dean says. He pierces flesh with metal and Rory flinches, “Relax.”

            Amy meets his eye from her perch on the top of the sofa and nods from him to come over. “Leave them to do their job;” she advises in a low voice, “He said they’re used to it.”

            Rory nods, but is still troubled, “But look where their job has gotten them.” he whispers, glancing over to Sam and Dean, the former who has moved on to salting all the windows, and the latter who is painting signs on the wall in his own blood. “Their sense of normality is completely twisted.”

            There’s a sudden clang of metal that claims everyone’s attention.

            Watson is standing in the doorway, fumbling with a tray of tea and steadying it at the last moment. He quickly enters the room and sets the tray down. “What are you doing?” he exclaims, “Holmes!” he accuses quickly, turning to his friend. “What are you letting them do?”

            “Watson,” Holmes says calmly, “They are merely protecting our fragile mortal lives. Surely you understand. It’s most fascinating. Look here, Sam has been telling me about”

            “-Is that blood?” Watson interrupts, squinting and leaning over to tap at the wall with his cane. “These stains are not going to come out easily.”

            Holmes sighs and looks up to the ceiling, puffing on his pipe.

            “What’s that?” Amy asks, pointing to the piles of fabric draped over Watson’s arm.

“Oh, yes.” He says, lifting them, and laying everything out on the currently unoccupied sofa, across from Sherlock and John. “These are for you all. To be less conspicuous should we go out again. Especially you.” He adds, waving toward Amy and her skirt, which is apparently putting him out of his comfort zone.

            “Costumes!” the Doctor says excitably.

“Rory, you, and …Sherlock will have to wear something out of my closet. I’m afraid …John, will have to borrow something of Holmes’.” Watson says, “I took some of his nicer things, but even that…”

            Holmes snorts loudly and the corner of Watson’s mustache does his little twitch of amusement.

            Amy gingerly holds up the dress and accompanying garments picked out for her.

“That’s one of Mary’s old dresses,” Watson explains, “It was in the back of my wardrobe, I was rather surprised to find it there…”

            “Who’s Mary?” Amy asks, slipping behind a dressing partition haphazardly placed in the corner of the room. “Oh, did you know there’s a pig head back here?”

            Rory crinkles his nose; so _that_ was the smell. He hadn’t been sure what it was. He picks out some articles of clothing lain out and glances at Watson for a moment.

            The man has seemingly frozen and is staring down with a lost expression, not really seeing the waistcoat in his hands. “She…”

            Holmes sits forward and removes his pipe from his mouth, regarding Watson with a concerned frown. Even Sherlock watches Watson warily for a moment, eyes darting over him, analyzing details and making connections. A spark of realization lights up in his expression and his moodiness dissipates.

            Rory notes that the moment is contained between Watson and Holmes.

            Amy steps out from behind the dressing partition and Watson snaps out of his reverie. “Much better,” he declares. He straightens up and rolls back his shoulders, as if to shrug away his moment of weakness.

            “What do you think, Rory?” Watson asks.

            Amy does a small spin in the dress. It’s simple, dark purple, black, and gray in color, with long sleeves and a high neckline.

            “Very good,” he says, nodding.

“You’ll just need to pin up your hair,” Watson decides.

            Amy bunches up her hair in a bun smiles, batting her eye lashes comically, “Like so?”

Watson blinks and falters for moment. Holmes’s frown deepens but he replaces his pipe in his mouth and takes a puff.

            “Just like that.” Watson agrees.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any fancy bow ties, would you?” The Doctor wonders off to the side.

           

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and then I realised Mary and Amy were both gingers and suddenly it's not okay. This was supposed to be a light-hearted fic. Goddammit. First I was all look heehee Watson and Holmes are totally flirting and then ANGST. What have I done.  
> Anyway, sorry for the 10 month hiatus! I have a bunch of excuses, some shitty and some less shitty, but we'll TRY to update more often.  
> Also, we're all about fanservice, so let us know in a comment what you're looking forward to/what you think ought to be touched down on/included, and we'll see what we can do!  
> -TSM


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine, Part One: _Doctor Who_

 

            Amy isn’t quite sure what it is that wakes her, but one moment she’s tucked away in a dreamless slumber, and the next, she’s staring across a darkened room at the sleeping form of Sam  Winchester who has taken a spot next to Dean on the floor.

            Confused by her sudden state of consciousness and half uncertain as to how exactly she made it onto a sofa in an unfamiliar flat, surround by a group of sleeping men, Amy begins to sit up.

            She hesitates, however, as the low voices of Castiel and the Doctor drift over from somewhere in the room behind the sofa. In the doorway, perhaps?

            Amy lies still, and listens carefully.

            “...find anything?” That was the Doctor, his voice low and anxious.

            “I’m not sure,” Castiel’s voice is nearly indiscernible when he speaks quietly. Amy strains to hear his next words. “Does the name… Moriarty mean anything to you?”

“Moriarty?” The Doctor repeats after a moment, “Can’t say it rings a bell.”

“I spoke with the demon’s vessel’s employers. At the grocery store. Someone heard him muttering to himself before he left work. Suddenly.” Castiel said shortly. “It was the demon speaking.”

“And you know this…?”

Castiel didn’t reply, and the Doctor didn’t pursue it.

“...So. This ‘angel’ business…”

“I realize that your world doesn’t”

“-didn’t”

“What?” Amy can hear the frown in Castiel’s voice.

“Let’s talk about your world. _Where are you from?_ ”

“I do not understand,” Amy can almost _taste_ his frown _-waitasecond_ \- that is _not_ what she meant- “Heaven is not a planet, Doctor. It’s a separate dimension. A celestial realm.” Castiel says slowly. “Your Earth does not have such a place -at least not as this one does.”

“Hold on,” now the Doctor’s confused. Amy recognizes it, the puzzled, hesitant way his words begin to grow. “ _My_ Earth? _Your_ Earth?”

“Surely you’ve noticed.”

 _Noticed what_? Amy thinks into the ensuing silence.

“Yes. There’s a… rift, of some sort.” The Doctor begins, “Not in time per se -rather, in reality. This isn’t my universe is it? The two Holmeses and Watsons… they’re alternated versions of each other, aren’t they?”

Another moment of quiet passes.

“I… am not sure what caused our realities to meld,” Castiel says. “However, it is crucial that you be able to return to your own -before the space gap mends itself.”

“Will it?”

“You hold the doctorate,” Castiel says in all seriousness. “I thought you would know.”

The Doctor lets out a short breath- an almost laugh; “Yes, I’m the Doctor, but” -a pause  -“It seems like _you’re_ the expert.”

Amy waits for the response and waits a long time. For a moment, she begins to think that’s it, that Castiel and the Doctor will remain in a mutual silence for the remainder of the night. Her mind tugs her back toward sleep.

“I do not understand what is happening,” Castiel admits. “I know someone who has the power to change reality but this -this does not seem like their work.”

“Do you think the demon -or this Moriarty -know?”

“It is a possibility,” Castiel says, “Though a low one at that.”

Amy hears soft, careful footsteps -someone crossing the room. A board creaks, ever so slightly, and whoever it is stops.

            “You...are an angel, yes? What does that mean, an angel?”

            “Your Earth does not have a God?”

            “ _My_ Earth?”-he hesitates- “Well, it does, I suppose. Every species has their own sort of beliefs. Some humans happen to believe in a God, yes.”

            “Earlier,” Castiel says, realization seeming to dawn over him, “When you questioned my being - _you_ are an alien?”

            “I  -well, I did think you were some sort of humanoid species. I’m still not quite sure if I…” The Doctor starts and stops. He trails off, uncertain.

            “Doctor, is it that difficult? You operate a time-traveling vehicle. You’re from another planet, right? Far from Earth?” There’s a beat, where Castiel perhaps expects the Doctor to reply. “Then the existence of divine beings is hardly… incredible.”

            “It’s not your -your _existence_. Humans believe angels to be _miracle_ - _workers_ , and I -that’s difficult to believe, sometimes.” Amy’s never heard the Doctor struggle to find the right words so much.

            “We are servants of our Father,” Castiel concedes, “and His work may appear to be miraculous… but there is …free will. And everyone forges their own path, in the end.”

            “That- those are the humans I know. They’re really truly so strong. So many times I’ve seen those with far greater power decide that they are easy to use, to destroy, whatever it may be. But the human race always fights back and always proves that they’re not that easily subdued.”

“The human condition… is not a weak one.” Castiel agrees. “I have learned that, in my time on Earth.”

“Why _are_ you on Earth?”

“I was sent, two years ago, on a holy mission.” he says, not as a revelation, but as a fact. “For thirty-nine years, my brothers and I fought our way into the depths of Hell.”

Amy stiffens.

“On the fortieth year of battle, we reached the Rack and thus, the soul of Dean Winchester. He was my assignment then, and I gripped him tight and raised him from perdition. I have… done my best since to protect Dean. And Sam. They have taught me much about humans.”

The Doctor, after a silence, whispers contemplatively, “An angel of the Lord...”

“I am who I am, Doctor. Who are you?”

“Well, I’m the Doctor. A timelord. I suppose there’s none of those over in this reality, either, is there?” He laughs softly, and it is a sad sound.

“No,” Castiel  says, and though his voice is still low and gruff, Amy thinks that _somehow_ there’s still a tone of comfort there. “But angels don’t weep here, either.”

The Doctor chuckles again, though this time in appreciation for Castiel’s attempt at a joke.

Silence envelopes the apartment once more and finally, Amy gives in to her tired body and goes back to sleep.

\---

Chapter Nine, Part Two: _Supernatural_

 

            Sam is sitting in a room -a motel room, he realizes -and it looks vaguely familiar. Familiar, of course, in the way that most motel rooms have begun to look. There’s the bed, a small table, a chair, a televisions… all the expected things.

            And thought Sam’s sure that all of his past sleeps have been filled with mind-numbing darkness, he lies on his back on the motel bed as if he does it every night.

            “You know,” says a voice beside his ear, “Dream settings are supposed to say a lot about the kind of character a person has.”

            Sam doesn’t turn his head to the side in shock, doesn’t even move and Lucifer continues, “What does this room say about you, Sammy? Your sense of interior decor is bland? Or is it simply motel-chic?”  he cackles.

            Sam frowns at the ceiling, “You’re a lot less shocking when I’m asleep.” he decides aloud.

            Lucifer makes an affronted noise and his face is suddenly looming over Sam. “Are you suggesting that I don’t intimidate you because you think I’m a figment of your imagination?”

            “I _know_ you’re a figment of my imagination,” Sam replies, slinging an arm over his eyes. “And I’m asleep. And also over one hundred years in the past with you still firmly in the cage. So, logically, there’s no reason for you to still be here at all.”

            “Yet here I am,” Lucifer says, and Sam can feel fingers clawing at his arm.

            He refuses to give in and keeps said limb firmly plastered over his face. “Yeah,” he says, “Here you are, conveniently disrupting my sleep, but one-hundred percent of a hallucination Or nightmare, I guess, since I _am_ asleep.” He feels Lucifer’s hands stop prying at him and there’s a shift in weight on the bed; Lucifer rolls away.

            He hears a melodramatic sigh, just when he begins to think that maybe the Devil has left. “ _Sam_ ,” Lucifer whines, drawing out the name so that it sounds like ‘ _Saaaam-muuuuuh_ ’, “C’mon, pay attention to me. I’m bored. Sammy?”

            “No,” Sam thinks, but doesn’t say.

            There’s silence, and when Sam dares to peek out into the room, Lucifer is gone.

            He sighs in relief and feels tension he didn’t even know he was keeping roll off of him. He stares at the cracked ceiling of the room and then, as his eyes begin to droop close, the motel room fades to black.

  


           

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Updates over a year later*
> 
> WHOOPS HAHA

Chapter Ten, Part One:  _Sherlock_

John has always been an early riser. He's one for routines, unlike Sherlock, who alternates between waking at four A.M to play his damned instrument to sleeping in past noon. John wakes up every day at six-thirty sharp, and today is no different –except, of course, for the part where he wakes up in what looks like his flat, sprawled on the ground next to three others.

Counting heads, John realizes that the Doctor, Castiel, and Sam Winchester are amongst those missing; he knows that Holmes and Watson are in their respective rooms, or at least they were in the evening before, but who knows at this point. Both bedroom doors are still shut, but if Holmes is anything like Sherlock, there are several places he may be at six-thirty that are  _not_  his bed.

Speaking of Sherlock, the man is still quite asleep on the rug beside John. One might expect the great Sherlock Holmes to look graceful in sleep, but he drools and looks unappealing and completely human like any other fool. It's very reassuring, John thinks.

He looks around for the missing members of the group and hears voices from down the stairs. John follows the noise after a brief glance back and the still-sleeping forms of Sherlock, Rory, and Amy, and finds Sam, Castiel, and the Doctor in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen.

The stove is on and there is flour  _everywhere_.

It takes a moment for John to decipher the scene.

At the counter, Castiel and the Doctor are mixing batter in a large bowl. Well, the Doctor is, anyway, while Castiel frowns at a recipe book. Sam is standing at the stove with a frying pan, looking like the responsible adult as he flips –pancakes. They're making pancakes.

John doesn't even have to ask in an annoyed voice what the hell is going on, because it's pretty obvious, so he just pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers, sighs, and turns around to go back to sleep.

Sherlock is awake when John crawls back onto the rug to try and force at least another hour of sleep.

His eyes narrow and John can feel his scrutiny.

"John," Sherlock says sharply.

"Sherlock," John responds, voice muffled in his pillow.

"You're going back to sleep, John," There's an edge of alarm in Sherlock's voice, as if such a disruption in John's sleeping patterns surely means that something awful has occurred.

"Impeccable observation, Sherlock," John mutters, because he's suddenly very tired and all he wants to do is go back to sleep, "Very astute. Well done."

There's nothing more and John hears Sherlock get to his feet and pick his way around the floor strewn with bodies.

He continues to lie there, bone-tired and he just wants to go back to sleep, but sleep, of course, doesn't come. It's six-forty. He should be up and about.

Someone kicks him gently in the side.

"What in Heaven's name are you feigning sleep for?" says a voice that is much unlike Sherlock's.

John rolls over and frowns up at Holmes.

"You witnessed the making of pancakes downstairs and found it too ridiculous to deal with first thing in the morning," Holmes doesn't make it a question.

"Something like that," John says, sitting up.

Holmes hums and takes out his pipe again, sticking it between his teeth and digging around in his pockets.

"That can kill you, you know. Smoking,"

Holmes snorts, "A great many things can kill me, John," he says. "For example: boxing, drinking, drug use, investigating murder. Yet I do all these things nonetheless."

"Cocaine?" John repeats incredulously.

Holmes makes a noise that sounds indifferent, and he lights his pipe, turning away to kick at the others in a very noncommittal manner. "Wake up," he says, "I've been sent to see you all awake,"

Dean snaps awake before he can get kicked and John suspects that he may have also been awake the whole time. "Don't even think about it, dude," Dean tells Holmes –or rather, his foot. He gets up and looks around, "Is Cas back yet?"

"Castiel is currently assisting in the destruction of Mrs. Hudson's kitchen," Holmes says. He waves his pipe around triumphantly, realizing "I cannot be blamed for this. I  _will_  not!"

"Yeah, yeah, follow your dreams," Dean mutters, heading for the doors.

John climbs to his feet, resigning himself to the reality of his inability to sleep in. All around the room, the stragglers of the party are stirring. Amy drags Rory to his feet, still yawning herself, but as the group moves downstairs, the smell of coffee that has joined the pancakes wakes something up inside of them.

The kitchen is still quite a mess as everyone assembles inside of it, and Watson is the last to join the group, sighing exasperatedly as he takes in the scene of destruction.

"It was them," Holmes assures him, pointing his finger at the guilty parties.

There aren't enough chairs or even room at the kitchen table to house the eleven of them, so most of them stand around and trade off plates and mugs.

John notices that, in the corner where he is situated, Sherlock has grown increasingly agitated. It doesn't surprise him, therefore, when he bursts out after the first round of pancakes, "Will we be addressing what Castiel has discovered or not?"

The Doctor and Castiel exchange a significant look.

"Yeah," Dean says around a mouthful of pancake, "Did you find anything?"

"We have a name," Castiel affirms.

"Don't leave us hanging!" Rory says, though Amy is curiously quiet.

"The demon that possessed the grocer was heard muttering the name 'Moriarty'," Castiel says, "I am unfamiliar with any significant demons or other beings with this name, but"

"-He's a criminal." Holmes says sharply.

"The Napoleon of crime," Watson says grimly.

The name is, of course, equally familiar with John and Sherlock, who meets John's startled gaze with a grave look of his own.

"You have a Jim, too?" John asks. Great. As if the universe needed  _two_  Jim Moriartys.

"We  _had_  a Moriarty," Holmes says.

"Where is he?"

"At the bottom of Reichenbach falls, unless he's been fished out," Watson says, looking at Holmes with an odd expression in his eyes. "He's been dead for at least a year now. Holmes has been working to bring down his criminal network. I thought you took care of that?"

"I thought so, too," Holmes says, "Certainly, they haven't been strong enough to retaliate against us, or we would have heard from them before now."

"Well, there was…" Watson trails off.

"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock finishes. "Jim's right-hand man,"

"So this Moran bloke," Rory ventures, "Is he the demon?"

"He's dead," John said, "And certainly human whilst alive,"

"It's possible," Castiel disagrees, "Many demons are merely the Hell-rotten souls of past humans. It is possible he was… given a deal to get off the rack early. Depending on what his sins were. Or, he's just gone through the process. A year's time on Earth is over a century in Hell."

"The rack?" Rory echoes, paling at Castiel's descriptions.

"Hell's torture chamber," Sam supplies, when Dean and Castiel are silent. "It's not a nice place, and most people spend years there."

The Doctor, hitherto silent as he slowly chews on the last of his pancakes, suddenly turns to Castiel and says, "You said  _Heaven_  is less active in this reality. If that's so, why are there still demons?"

"He's the same as us," Amy blurts out, "He fell through the time-space gap."

"The what?" Dean says.

Everyone turns to her, and John notices distinct lack of surprise in Castiel and the Doctor's features, though the Doctor is frowning at Amy, as if her knowledge of this 'gap' is unexpected, but not something he didn't already know.

"A time and space gap," Holmes murmurs thoughtfully.

"Of course," Sherlock mutters.

John feels his eyes roll back almost on instinct and when he looks over, Watson is sighing also. He catches John's eye afterward and his moustache seems to twitch with amusement.  _Holmes_ , is the general exasperated agreement.

* * *

 

Chapter Ten, Part Two:  _Doctor & Crew_

Rory has given up on trying to really understand this talk of demons and time-space holes, and he lets the others argue over this new Moran character, choosing instead to wander out of the kitchen and take a look outside.

Sherlock and Holmes' game of intellectual one-upmanship regarding the theoretical existence of wormholes had begun to make his head spin anyway.

Standing on the front steps of 221B, Rory looks up and down Baker Street, noting the passerbys strolling by with leisure under the city's perpetually gray skies. The air is a mix of smells –burning coal, some baker from down the street –the hint of something sour. There's something paradoxically tranquil about the hustle and bustle of London of the past, and Rory leans against the doorway, content to watch it all.

He doesn't notice, therefore, when a dark cloud of smoke floats over him, blocking out what little sun light there is. An odd, sulfurous scent overwhelms Rory when he next breathes in, but by the time he looks around, alarmed, it's too late and the black cloud is upon him, surrounding his head in a cold haze of darkness.

Rory squeezes his eyes shut—

And Sebastian Moran opens them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recently, I've obtained a greater grasp of how to write actual plot things, so it's possible this story might actually have sporadic updates in the future. Can't promise anything. I don't think either me or LL (resident Dr Who consultant) has been keeping up with Dr Who or even remembers how to accurately characterize some of these characters anymore...

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Okay so this is going to be a four-way-crossover! Fun stuff, eh? Right, so I can't promise frequent updates, but we (Laurence and I) have a general plot outlined, and we have each other to pressure, so the new chapters should come soon enough. :)  
> Find me on tumbler... thescratchman.tumbler.com, and wish that you might be able to find Laurence one day, because she deleted her account :[)) [Hint, hint: get a new one, LL]  
> Thanks for reading!  
> -TSM
> 
> Hey, yeah thought i'd add my own note. Bite me. But yeah so this thing is thing is mostly written by my darling TSM. I'm just a sort of consulting Whovian. Also awesome plot developer at times! But yeah just making sure credit is given where it's due.  
> /lurks tumblr forever as a homeless blogger  
> -LL


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